His Stolen Bride (Chicago Sons)
Read His Stolen Bride (Chicago Sons) Online
Authors: Barbara Dunlop
To love, honor and abduct a beautiful bride… Only from
New York Times
bestselling author Barbara Dunlop.
“Will you take this woman?”
Yes. As a favor to his estranged father, investigator Jackson Rush agrees to kidnap Crista Corday from her high society wedding. His job is to stop her marriage to a con man, not seduce the alluring Crista himself. But two days together, on the run from her fiancé’s shady family, obliterate every rule…
Crista has no idea of the danger drawing near. Jackson can’t reveal it without divulging who really sent him. And that’s a risk that could cost him everything…unless Crista will put herself under his passionate protection forever.
“I don’t usually do this,” he said.
He didn’t usually kidnap women or unbutton their wedding gowns?
Crista knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, back away, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions were under control.
But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.
She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.
Jackson dipped his head.
She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.
His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.
She didn’t move away.
* * *
His Stolen Bride
is part of the Chicago Sons series: Men who work hard, love harder and live with their fathers’ legacies…
Dear Reader,
Welcome to book four of the Chicago Sons series! I love a great wedding, and when I was in my twenties I attended a lot of them. As you might imagine, they covered the spectrum from a picnic service in the park to a cathedral ceremony and a country club reception.
As the years went on, with certain exceptions, I began to notice a pattern: the bigger the wedding, the higher the probability of an eventual divorce. I wondered over the years if it might be due to a focus on the wedding versus a focus on the marriage. I’m still not sure, but it seemed like a fine starting point for a story.
Investigator Jackson Rush puts a sudden stop to Crista Corday’s opulent wedding. He has his reasons for kidnapping her and holding her, designer gown and all, on his boat in Lake Michigan. Crista is determined to escape from the sexy, intimidating Jackson. But instead she kisses him and takes comfort from him, and finds herself questioning her own life choices.
Happy reading. I hope you enjoy
His Stolen Bride
!
Barbara
His Stolen Bride
BARBARA DUNLOP
Barbara Dunlop
writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website,
barbaradunlop.com
.
Books by Barbara Dunlop
Harlequin Desire
Colorado Cattle Barons
A Cowboy Comes Home
A Cowboy in Manhattan
An Intimate Bargain
Millionaire in a Stetson
A Cowboy’s Temptation
The Last Cowboy Standing
Chicago Sons
Sex, Lies and the CEO
Seduced by the CEO
A Bargain with the Boss
His Stolen Bride
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com
, or
barbaradunlop.com
, for more titles.
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To Mom with love
CHAPTER ONE
A
heavy metal door clanged shut behind Jackson Rush, echoing down the hallway of the Riverway State Correctional Institute in northeast Illinois. He paused to mentally brace himself as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he walked forward, his boot heels clacking against the worn linoleum. He couldn’t help thinking the prison would make a perfect movie set, with its cell bars, scarred gray cinder blocks, flickering fluorescent lights and the scattered shouts from connecting rooms and hallways.
His father, Colin Rush, had been locked up here for nearly seventeen years, ever since he was caught stealing thirty-five million dollars from the unsuspecting investors in his personal Ponzi scheme.
His dramatic arrest had taken place on Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. The police rushed the backyard pool party, sending guests shrieking and scattering. Jackson could still see the two-tiered blue-and-white layer cake sliding from the table, splattering on the grass, obliterating his name as it oozed into a pile of goo.
At first, his father had stridently proclaimed his innocence. Jackson’s mother had taken Jackson to the courtroom every day of the trial, where they’d sat stoically and supportively behind the defense. But it soon became clear that Colin was guilty. Far from being a brilliant investor, he was a common thief.
When one of his former clients committed suicide, he lost all public sympathy and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. Jackson hadn’t seen his father since.
Now he rounded the corner to the visiting area, prepared for stark wooden benches, Plexiglas partitions and hardwired black telephone receivers. Instead, he was surprised to find himself in a bright, open room that looked like a high school cafeteria. A dozen round red tables were positioned throughout, each with four stools connected by thick metal braces directly to the table base. The hall had high rectangular windows and checkerboard tile floors. A few guards milled around while the other visitors seemed to be mostly families.
A man stood up at one of the tables and made eye contact. It took Jackson a moment to recognize his father. Colin had aged considerably, showing deep wrinkles around his eyes and along his pale, hollow cheeks. His posture was stooped, and his hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking it was him, and he smiled.
Jackson didn’t smile back. He was here under protest. He didn’t know why his father had insisted he come, only that the emails and voice messages had become increasingly frequent and sounded more and more urgent. He’d eventually relented in order to make them stop.
Now he marched toward the table, determined to get the visit over and done with.
“Dad,” he greeted flatly, sticking out his hand, preempting what would surely be the most awkward hug in history.
“Hello, son,” said Colin, emotion shimmering in his eyes as he shook Jackson’s hand.
His grip was firmer than Jackson had expected.
Jackson’s attention shifted to a second man seated at the round table, half annoyed by his presence, but half curious as well.
“It’s good to see you,” said Colin.
Jackson didn’t respond, instead raising his brow inquiringly at the stranger.
Colin cleared his throat and released Jackson’s hand. “Jackson, this is Trent Corday. Trent and I have been cell mates for the past year.”
It seemed more than strange that Colin would bring a friend to this meeting. But Jackson wasn’t about to waste time dwelling on the question.
He looked back to his father. “What is it you want?”
He could only guess there must be a parole hearing coming up. If there was, Colin was on his own. Jackson wouldn’t help him get out of prison early. Colin had three years left on his sentence, and as far as Jackson was concerned, he deserved every minute.
His selfish actions had harmed dozens of victims, not the least of which was Jackson’s mother. She’d been inconsolable after the trial, drinking too much, abusing prescription painkillers, succumbing to cancer five years later just as Jackson graduated from high school.
Colin gestured to one of the stools. “Please, sit.”
Jackson perched himself on the small metal seat.
“Trent has a problem,” said Colin, sitting down himself.
What Trent’s problem could possibly have to do with Jackson was the first question that came to mind. But he didn’t ask—instead, he waited.
Trent filled the silence. “It’s my daughter. I’ve only been inside for three years. A misunderstanding, really, I—”
“Save it,” said Jackson.
Seventeen years ago, he’d listened to Colin protest endlessly about how he’d been framed, then railroaded, then misunderstood. Jackson wasn’t here to listen to the lies of a stranger.
“Yes, well…” Trent glanced away.
Jackson looked at his watch.
“She’s fallen victim,” said Trent. He fished into the pocket of his blue cotton shirt. “It’s the Gerhard family. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.”
Jackson gave a curt nod.
Trent put a photograph on the table in front of Jackson. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Jackson’s gaze flicked down.
The woman in the picture was indeed beautiful, likely in her midtwenties, with rich auburn hair, a bright, open smile, shining green eyes. But her looks were a moot point.
“She’s getting married,” said Trent. “To Vern Gerhard. They hide it well. But that family’s known to a lot of the guys in here. Vern is a con artist and a crook. So is his father, and his father before that.”
The woman obviously had questionable taste in men. Jackson found that less than noteworthy. In his line of work, he’d come across plenty of women who’d married the wrong guy, even more whose husbands didn’t meet with the approval of their fathers. Again, this had nothing to do with him.
He looked back to Colin. “What is it
you
want from me?”
“We want you to stop the wedding,” said Colin.
It took a second for the words to compute inside Jackson’s head. “Why would I do anything like that?”
“He’s after her money,” said Trent.
“She’s a grown woman.” Jackson’s glance strayed to the photo again.
She looked to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. He doubted she was thirty. With a face like that and any kind of money in the mix, she had to know she was going to attract a few losers. If she didn’t recognize them herself, there wasn’t anything Jackson could do about it.
Colin spoke up again. “She can’t possibly know she’s being conned. The girl places a huge value on honesty and integrity, has done her entire life. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”
“So tell her.”
“She won’t speak to me,” said Trent. “She sure won’t listen to me. She doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me.”
“I’m sure you can relate to that particular viewpoint,” said Colin, an edge to his voice.
“
That’s
what you want to say to me?” Jackson rose to his feet. No way, no how was he buying into a guilt trip from his old man.
“Sit down,” said Colin.
“Please,” said Trent. “Year ago, I put something in her name, shares in a diamond mine.”
“Lucky for her.”
The woman might well be picking the wrong husband, but at least she’d have a comfortable lifestyle.
“She doesn’t know about it,” said Trent.
For the first time since he’d walked in, Jackson’s curiosity was piqued. “She doesn’t know she owns a diamond mine?”
Both men shook their heads.
Jackson looked at the picture again, picking it up from the table. She didn’t appear naive. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say she looked intelligent. But she was drop-dead gorgeous. In his eight years as a private detective, he’d discovered features like that made women targets.
“Hear us out,” said Colin. “Please, son.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever you want.” Colin was nodding again.
“You hear things in here. And the Gerhards are dangerous,” said Trent.
“More dangerous than you two felons?” Jackson didn’t like that he’d become intrigued by the circumstances, but he had.
“Yes,” said Trent.
Jackson hesitated for a beat, but then he sat back down. Another ten minutes wouldn’t kill him.
“They found out about the mine,” said Trent, his tone earnest.
“You know this for sure?” asked Jackson.
“I do.”
“How?”
“A friend of a friend. The Borezone Mine made a promising new discovery a year ago. Only days later, Vern Gerhard made contact with my daughter. Final assaying is about to be announced, and the value will go through the roof.”
“Is it publicly traded?” asked Jackson.
“Privately held.”
“Then how did Gerhard know about the discovery?”
“Friends, industry contacts, rumors. It’s not that hard if you know where to ask.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“It’s not.” There was cold anger in Trent’s voice. “The Gerhards are bottom-feeders. They heard about the discovery. They targeted her. And as soon as the ink is dry on the marriage certificate, they’ll rob her blind and dump her like last week’s trash.”
Jackson traced his index finger around the woman’s face. “You have proof of that? You have evidence that he’s not in love with her?”
With that fresh-faced smile and those intelligent eyes, Jackson could imagine any number of men could simply fall in love, money or no money.
“That’s what we need you for,” said Colin.
“Expose their con,” said Trent. “Look into their secret, slimy business dealings and tell my Crista what you find. Convince her she’s being played and stop that wedding.”
Crista. Her name was Crista. It suited her.
Despite himself, Jackson was beginning to think his way through the problem, calculate the time he’d need for a cursory look into the Gerhard family’s business. At the moment, things weren’t too busy in the Chicago office of Rush Investigations. He’d planned to use the lull to visit the Boston office and discuss a possible expansion. But if push came to shove, he could make some time for this.
She was pretty. He’d give her that. Nobody in the Boston office was anywhere near this pretty.
“Will you do it?” asked Colin.
“I’ll scratch the surface,” said Jackson, pocketing the photo.
Trent opened his mouth, looking like he might protest Jackson taking the picture. But he obviously thought better of it and closed his mouth again.
“Keep us posted?” asked Colin.
For a split second, Jackson wondered if this was all a ruse to keep him in contact with his father. Did Colin plan to string him along for a while for some hidden reason of his own? He was, after all, a gifted con artist.
“The wedding’s Saturday,” said Trent.
That diverted Jackson’s attention. “
This
Saturday?”
“Yes.”
That was three days away.
“Why didn’t you start this sooner?” Jackson demanded. What did they expect him to accomplish in only three days?
“We did,” Colin said quietly.
Jackson clamped his jaw. Yeah, his father had been trying to get hold of him for a month. He’d been studiously ignoring the requests, just like he’d been doing for years. He owed Colin nothing.
He stood. “It’s not much time, but I’ll see what I can find.”
“She
cannot
marry him.” Trent’s undertone was rock hard with vehemence.
“She’s a grown woman,” Jackson repeated.
He’d look into the Gerhards. But if Crista Corday had fallen for a bad boy, there might be nothing her daddy or anyone else could do to change her mind.
* * *
Crista Corday swayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, her strapless lace and tulle wedding gown rustling softly against her legs. Her hair was swept up in a profusion of curls and braids. Her makeup had been meticulously applied. Even her underwear was white silk perfection.
She stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. She was a struggling jewelry designer, living in a basement suite off Winter Street. She didn’t wear antique diamonds. She didn’t get married in the magnificent Saint Luke’s Cathedral with a reception at the Brookbend Country Club. And she didn’t get swept off her feet by the most eligible prince charming in all of greater Chicago.
Except for the part where she did, and she had.
Cinderella had nothing on her.
There was a knock on the Gerhard mansion’s bedroom door.
“Crista?” the male voice called out. It was Vern’s cousin Hadley, one of the groomsmen.
“Come in,” she called in return.
She liked Hadley. He was a few years younger than Vern, laid-back by Gerhard standards, fun-loving and friendly. Taller than most of the men in the family, he was athletic and good-looking, with a jaunty swath of dark blond hair that swooped across his forehead.
He lived in Boston rather than Chicago, but he visited often, sometimes staying at the mansion, sometimes using a hotel. Crista assumed he preferred a hotel when he had a date. Vern’s mother, Delores, was staunchly religious and would not have allowed Hadley to have an overnight guest.
The door opened, and he stepped into the spacious, sumptuously decorated guest room. Crista had spent the night here, while Vern had stayed in his apartment downtown. Maybe it was Dolores’s influence, but Crista had been feeling old-fashioned the past few weeks, insisting she and Vern sleep apart until the honeymoon. Vern had reluctantly agreed.
Hadley halted. Then he pushed the door shut behind him and seemed to take in her ensemble.
“What?” she asked, checking herself out, wondering if she’d missed some glaring flaw.
“You look amazing,” he said.
Crista scoffed. “I sure hope I do.” She spread her arms. “Do you have any idea how much this all cost?”
Hadley grinned. “Aunt Delores wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I feel like an impostor.” Crista’s stomach fluttered with a resurgence of apprehension.
“Why?” he asked. His tone was gentle, and he moved closer.
“Because I grew up on the lower west side.”
“You don’t think we’re your people?”
She turned back to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. The woman staring back was her, but not her. It was a surreal sensation.